


Subtle Matter

by lightningwaltz



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rivals With Benefits, Size Difference, Wing Kink, not quite breathplay but like... the suggestion of it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-12-26 23:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: It’s hard to remember flying when falling is an eternal delight.





	Subtle Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arsenicjay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicjay/gifts).



> Hi arsenicjay! 
> 
> I really enjoyed the prompts in your letter! Specifically the idea of their being a role reversal going on, with the devil feeling weirdly guilty about indiscretions with the angel. I ended up leaning pretty heavily into the 'rivals with benefits' trope (probably on the nicer side of things) because I wanted to right two characters bickering/debating over fundamentally not understanding each other. Despite understanding each other pretty well in bed, haha. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Note: Not based on any angels in particular, although I did use the ideas of the devil being a fallen angel because it adds to the entertaining drama, imo.

When Roshan and Eliakim meet during this particular century, an international space station is their destination. As a rule, the two of them will inevitably fall into bed together before immediately going their separate ways. 

This time, though Eliakim wants to go to a movie. Roshan accepts this detour because he wants to see how people will react. Most of the film goers do not seem to look right through Eliakim, not realizing he’s an angel. A veritable messenger of God. There are some who look at Eliakim for a little too hard, and a little too long. Roshan is tempted to grab Eliakim and kiss him for the first time in centuries. That would probably be even more disconcerting for the particularly perceptive humans. 

Roshan doesn’t feel like exploiting the discomfort of the more observant crowd goers. Instead, he takes his seat beside Eliakim. He finds other things to observe. His chair will probably need to repaired in five and a half weeks. One of the lightbulbs needs to be replaced. There’s the scent of burnt popcorn, and the sound of ice thudding against cups. And, below all these structural problems and distractions, there’s humanity itself. This crowd is the same as any other; each person contains fault lines of sin and temptations. These fault lines emit something that isn’t quite a sound. It nevertheless sinks into Roshan’s eardrums like ambient music. Roshan could easily grab onto one human’s set of flaws, awakening them to the transformative power of personal rebellion. He’s done it before. 

The problem is Eliakim. In all this cacophony, Eliakim is a figure of silent perfection. He’s like a diamon without a flaw. In jewels, this is the sign of something artificial. In a heavenly creature, this is the sign of a being that has no point of corruption. Roshan has looked for something like this in Eliakim for centuries. Doubtless, Roshan will look for centuries more. 

“My goodness,” Eliakim says after the movie is over. The audience is filing out around them. “There was a great deal of crying from a couple people in the audience.”

“It must have been a tragedy.” There was a couple kissing in the first row of seats. They would be kissing until the ushers kicked them out. And, in about five weeks, they were almost certainly going to part ways for good. Some kisses heralded the start of something, while others heralded the end of something. “Either it was a tragedy, or it was so bad they collectively regretted wasting their money.”

“It’s just a story, though. It isn’t real.” Eliakim’s puzzlement was so quintessentially angelic. So was the look on his face. Roshan wonders once more how people can pass Eliakim by and assume that he is human.

Roshan keeps stealing glances at Eliakim as they make their way back to their hotel room. Eliakim has chosen to manifest a body that is tall and broad. This is a courteous choice. Roshan has decided to be short and slight this go around.

When they return, the door slides shut behind them. Eliakim wanders over to the window without looking back. He never seems to be concerned about whether Roshan is following him at not. Instead, he’s placing his fingers against the glass. Radiance from the artificial sunset sinks in Eliakim’s dark hair, brightening all the finer strands. It’s the first time Eliakim has ever looked like he’s wearing a halo of the proper iconography. If he moves, at all, the angle of light will shift. The halo will vanish.

“Someone will have to clean that glass.” Roshan says, wondering if angels or devils can have unique fingerprints.

“Oh?”

“You’re going to leave marks.” Faintest, microscopic bits of skin. Scientists could extract human genetics from something like that. They could construct entire family trees out of strands of DNA. Roshan wonders if he and Eliakim can be reduced to a code like that. He doubts “Someone will have to wipe it away.”

Eliakim ignores him, which is common enough. Instead, he pushes a button and the false sky disappears. They can both see this space station. It encircles and embraces the earth like a protective exoskeleton. Below, the earth is as blue and green as ever; the former encroaching on the latter. When Roshan had been an angel he could hear it all. The sound of an ant wandering over a stone. The melting of polar ice a hemisphere away. He suspects that the deep vastness of space does nothing to mute these things for Eliakim.

“Humans truly live in tiers now,” Eliakim muses. “The way they think angels and the damned all do.” His fingers trace the earth. There are some skyscrapers visible even at this distance. And, above that, the space station.

“Haven’t they always?” Roshan says. Even when there were only two humans, there was still a tier. They were still subordinate to the Lord of everything.

Eliakim still doesn’t look back at Roshan.

Early on, so many of their ‘dates’ had devolved into calm arguments. They had existed for millennia stacked on millennia, and only the Lord was more obstinate than the passage of time. They had both been slowly scoured of the need to find common ground. It was like when humans removed rust from metallic surfaces, exposing the original shape below.

This is why Roshan isn’t particularly surprised when Eliakim takes a hold of him. The window is cold against Roshan’s back, even though his shirt. The entire universe must be able to see it when Eliakim’s hands clasp gently around Roshan’s throat.

There are stars twinkling in his peripheral vision, and stars bursting into light in his brain. Roshan isn’t being strangled, Eliakim is just holding onto his neck. However, his human body floods still floods with adrenaline until can’t tell the difference between present and future delights. Until he can’t tell the difference between the real luminaries and the fake. Nor can he console his panicky lungs, and how they take up a staccato rhythm of frantic breaths. Strangulation wouldn’t kill Roshan any more than deliberate repression can kill a private desire. This body that contains him will die, but his spirit can always conjure up a new home of flesh.

This doesn’t matter, though. Every cell in the human body seems conditioned to yearn for life. They want to perpetuate, to duplicate, to continue. Soon enough, Roshan’s nervous system seems to shake Roshan’s free will and he can only applaud its dumb tenacity. His nails scrape at Eliakim’s wrists, drawing blood in a few places. A few drops hit the floor, and Roshan’s distantly wonders about DNA again.

When Eliakim lets Roshan go, it first feels like a loss. And then it’s as though Roshan still has wings. He imagines that he’s floated up to the ceiling even though he’s kneeling on that ground.

“Take your clothes off, Roshan.” Eliakim says this with such kindness that it would be possible to miss the order in it.

It doesn’t matter how often Roshan hears this. It doesn’t matter how many bodies he creates and then possesses. He will never care for being undressed, anymore than the first humans did after they first tasted enlightenment. The human body has so many points of strength. It also has many points of vulnerability that are best concealed. When Roshan undresses he watches Eliakim undergo the same process. He looks as composed as ever.

 _‘Doesn’t being naked bother you? It leaves us more helpless than we would otherwise.’_ Roshan had asked that many centuries ago, when all humans still lived on Earth.

_‘I have the Lord. I am never helpless’_

That had been Eliakim’s answer then, and the same response is in his eyes now.

“Now kneel.” The same compassion is in Eliakim’s voice, inciting an answering anger in Roshan.

He does as he’s told, though, thinking about how many humans have prayed in this exact position. Roshan leaves kisses on Eliakim’s feet and ankles. Slow, open-mouthed, feigning seduction.

“O servant of God,” he says, his tone as dry as the air in this space station. “Thank you for blessing me.”

For some reason that makes Eliakim laugh. “You already have the capacity to be blessed.”

“If I ask for forgiveness.” Alright. Perhaps the seed of conflict still exists within him. “And only then.”

“I’m not the one that must forgive you,” Eliakim says, grabbing on to Roshan’s hair and pulling his head up.

“No, you don’t. That’s why I rather like these encounters.”

That’s the last thing Roshan says for a while, because he knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s licked and sucked Eliakim’s cock to hardness hundreds upon hundreds of times. Not once has he made Eliakim moan, or whine, or beg the way humans do. Eliakim’s hands just stroke their way through Roshan’s hair, but they don’t tense up, let alone yank or tug. He barely reacts even when Roshan takes him deep, deep into his own throat. Soon enough, Roshan’s lungs warn him about a lack of air, and this time they have good reason to fear. Soon enough he’s the one shuddering. When he thinks about pulling away, Eliakim holds him in place for what may very well be an eternity. Roshan surrenders to strange human instinct, breathing through his nose. Counting, waiting, wondering.

And then Eliakim lets him go. Roshan falls back into a seated position, wiping his mouth even though Eliakim didn’t climax. He never has whenever they do this. Perhaps Roshan will figure it out within the next thousand years.

“You act so detached, and yet you kept me on your dick.” Roshan always says some variation of this even though Eliakim never takes the bait. “You always do.”

Eliakim bends down to pick Roshan up off the ground. This is in keeping with their usual script until he speaks.

“It’s because I am rather fascinated by your reaction,” he says, depositing Roshan into the bed. “I have yet to figure it out.”

“Hm?” Roshan isn’t sure what to make of that, so it’s best to prompt further response.

“You clearly love and hate it all at once. It’s interesting to watch you go through that. Or, rather, it makes me curious. That’s something I’ve never understood about devils.” Eliakim cups the side of Roshan’s face with warmth and gentleness. “When you chose to fall, you forsook the constant bliss of oneness with the Lord. You seem to prefer a strange intermingling of pleasure and degradation. I can see it in your eyes.”

Roshan waits until Eliakim is on top of him. For a long few moments he loses himself in the contrast of their current bodies. Eliakim’s tall musculature envelopes Roshan’s short litheness. He has to hold his arms over his head to keep from succumbing to a temptation to run his palms over Eliakim’s body.

“When a human heart dies they call that flat-lining.” Roshan murmurs this into Eliakim’s chest. “That’s what your existence is like. That’s what it felt like for me when I was an angel. Ecstasy that continues forever is not truly ecstasy.”

It’s a decent argument, but Roshan doubts he’s hit the mark. Eliakim doesn’t even tense up. He just prepares his fingers so that they can slide into Roshan. Eliakim finds the prostate with the ease of millennia of practice. Roshan allows waves of delight to break over him again and again. He covers his eyes and sinks into it further.

“This is what I meant. You could have always had this. I always feel like this.” Eliakim almost sounds sad about it. That’s a rather pedestrian emotion for an angel to have, so Roshan seizes on it for exploitation. 

Roshan lets his hands fall back onto the pillow. He clings to it as he tries to assemble a fairly complex thought. His voice sounds downright ragged when he manages to speak again.

“And yet you keep seeking me out. If you’re truly content being one with the Lord, why do you like to lie with a devil.”

“Why, indeed?”

When Eliakim slips his fingers out, Roshan presses his legs tight together. He does this solely for the pleasure of feeling Eliakim calmly and decisively maneuver them apart. Eliakim then presses his cock into Roshan, his eyes terribly calm as he does so. There was no preparation for this. None whatsoever, and Roshan’s muscles clench against this intrusion. They quite liked the position they were usually in, thank you very much. His nerves get in on the action, sending out sparks of pain in warning. Roshan grinds his molars side to side, his spirit coaxing this temporal body into acceptance. The pain never truly dissipates, but he soon finds a kind of enjoyment in it; the stretch and the fullness, the slickness of lubricant and the pressure of Eliakim’s body.

And, of course, other nerves weigh in forcefully when Eliakims cock reaches Roshan’s prostate once more. They create a chorus that drowns everything out. The bed’s comforter sticks to the perspiration on Roshan’s body, and he doesn’t bother to keep himself from writhing. Eliakim’s hands grab onto Roshan’s wrists. He pulls out and then shoves himself back in repeatedly. It’s the kind of movement that leaves bruises, and there’s nothing holy about the way their flesh slams together. There’s nothing holy about the sound Roshan makes, either.

He doesn’t remain on his back for long. Eliakim somehow maneuvers them up into a seated position. Gravity forces Roshan to take Eliakim in so much deeper. Not that this is a problem. He rocks up and down, faster than Eliakim ever moves. Sweat is pooling in the hollow below his neck, and it’s something of a triumph when Eliakim licks it away. Roshan isn’t a forbidden fruit, but he’s not the most wholesome of tastes either.

He’s startled when Eliakim’s wings manifest. This rarely happens. Perhaps it’s because they’re up in space. Up in the realm that humans used to believe was heaven. The wings arc around their bodies, almost cocooning them. They’re ethereal things; half pure light, half something indefinable. When they touch Roshan’s back, they sting and scrape every bit of skin that they reach. No scientist could name the material that composes an angel’s wings. No one could place them anywhere on the periodic table. And yet, Roshan knows they’re leaving cuts on his back.

Roshan had once had wings of his own. It’s so hard to remember that as he sinks down and down, wrapped up in Eliakim’s arms and wings alike.

It’s hard to remember flying when falling is an eternal delight.

Roshan tries to explain this, but his mouth opens on a silent moan as he nears climax.

Eliakim’s hands grab Roshan’s face again. This time his grip is severe. “Keep your eyes on mine. I’m trying to understand you.”

Roshan disobeys orders eventually, though. He is, after all, a devil. He doesn’t have to follow any being, least of all an angel; The quintessential servant. Roshan rules over himself, and he will only submit to things like an orgasm. That’s a tiny submission compared to what God had once required of him. 

When they’ve separated from one another, Roshan finds his clothes and slips back into them. Eliakim is content to lounge in the bed, still fully naked. Rather than a servant of God, he looks more like a painting of Eros in the moment before being discovered by Psyche.

“I heard they are planning to build stations in the ocean,” Roshan says.

Eliakim sighs. “The oceans are more of a mystery to humans than the moon. I suppose it makes sense that humans would be unable to countenance that.”

“Should I meet you there when they manage to finish building it?” Roshan asks.

“Of course.”


End file.
